


Simple Fears

by razboinicul_iernii



Category: Captain America (Movies), IT - Stephen King, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Catatonia, Crossover, Deadlights, Dehumanization, Horror, In fact i don't think his timeline makes exact sense in this but whatever!, Sewers, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, every character listed after pennywise is not really in this just fyi, halloween fic, i think the violence is mild but i selected the warning just to be safe, specifically regarding the origins of it but nothing to do with the plot concerning the losers club, there may be smallish spoilers for the novel version of it, young brock rumlow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 22:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12567260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/razboinicul_iernii/pseuds/razboinicul_iernii
Summary: May 1985. Brock Rumlow is sent on his second-ever assignment with the Winter Soldier and two other agents to track down and eliminate a researcher in a small town in Maine. The ease of the assignment leads Brock to wonder why the Winter Soldier has been sent along, especially once the asset begins to mention hearing voices coming from the drains.





	Simple Fears

**Author's Note:**

> I was struck by divine madness/inspiration to write this about three days ago and here it is, just in time for Halloween. :))) Enjoy(i hope, anyway!)
> 
> The title comes from a passage in the novel IT, which describes Its reasoning for so often targeting children: 
> 
> "It had always fed well on children. Many adults could be used without knowing they had been used, and It had even fed on a few of the older ones over the years — adults had their own terrors, and their glands could be tapped, opened so that all the chemicals of fear flooded the body and salted the meat. But their fears were mostly too complex. The fears of children were simpler and usually more powerful. The fears of children could often be summoned up in a single face...and if bait were needed, why, what child did not love a clown? "
> 
> I have often thought of the Winter Soldier as having a somewhat childlike mindset given his brainwashing. That is, he sees a lot of things in very simple, black and white terms, as simple terms are the easiest ones for Hydra to manipulate. So when I read this passage it made me think of Bucky and of course this strange thing was born. Hurray!

1

  
"This is incident report number....SZ036. The date is May 30th , 1985. I have with me the only surviving agent dispatched for the assignment." The man looked up and nodded. "State your name for the record."  
  
"Brock Rumlow." He glanced down at the tape recorder on the table between them as he said it. Tried not to let his eyes wander around the room. Tried not to let himself think that whatever had been back there had followed him here. Tried not to think about the way the cigarette between his fingers shook when he held it to his lips to take a drag.  
  
"How long have you been an agent with us, Brock?" The man-was it Ryan, or Bryan, something like that?-asked.  
  
"Eight months." Two years in the military just out of high school, and he'd never experienced anything like this. Maybe he should go back, if they'd take him.  
  
"And you have worked with the Winter Soldier how many times?"  
  
"Just once before this."  
  
"Our records here indicate that was on December 18th, 1984, is that correct?"  
  
"Yeah." He exhaled smoke, away from the man across the table.  
  
"And were there any complications on that mission?"  
  
"No. Nothing. Definitely not like this."  
  
"The Soldier was obedient and well-behaved throughout the duration of the assigment?" The man was underlining something on one of the papers. Maybe reports from the last mission.  
  
"Yeah. I mean I'm no expert but it-" He shrugged. "Jacobs never had to yell at him. I mean-no corrective actions were necessary. Target was eliminated and that was that."  
  
"But this time?"  
  
Brock's eyes bored holes into the tape recorder like he could find the answers to the horrifying puzzle of what had happened in there, somewhere. Between the turning gears and microphone that would suck in and flatten his voice, making it tinny and somehow not his own. "There were issues," he said finally and wanted to laugh hysterically at the simplification.  
  
"Let's start at the beginning. You and the two other agents arrived at the destination as scheduled on May 25th, at 12:45 AM. Correct?"  
  
Brock nodded, remembered this was for an audio record, and said, "Yeah."  
  
Another notation on the paper. Maybe comparing his report to outline of the initial assignment. "Okay and during transit did anything seem unusual to you? With either the Soldier or your team mates?"  
  
"No," Brock said, shaking his head slowly and taking another calming drag. He thought back to the night. They'd moved at night on his first assignment with the Soldier, and maybe they always did. To keep him as secret as possible. "No. We were, I mean, me and the agents, we were keyed up as you might be before an assignment. You know, the adrenaline and all that. But the Soldier was  
  
2  
  
cool as a cucumber, aren't you fuckface?"  
  
Brock didn't bother hiding it when he rolled his eyes as Richards leaned his elbow onto the Soldier's shoulder. The stupid joke was followed by a goofy cackle at his own comedic genius. Cool, because the Soldier was frozen after a mission. Cool because his code name was _Winter._ Ha ha. Christ where did they find these guys?  
  
The Soldier didn't react. Never really did, so far as Brock could tell. He'd heard stories, yeah. When they first got it here in America they'd had to work out some specifics of its handling for themselves. There'd been bug outs that ended violently. But over time they figured it out. Sure, maybe Brock had only been on one assignment with the Soldier. It'd been smooth though. So it was kind of like, to Brock at least, getting paired with the shy weirdo who always sat at the back of the classroom for a group assignment and he never talks to any of you the whole time but ends up doing pretty much all the work without you having to pay him much attention. It works out.  
  
"Shut the hell up, Richards," Jacobs muttered from the wheel. He took an offramp for Route 2 that'd take them out from 95 to this nowhere town. Everything in this state was a complete mystery to Brock. He knew it was fucking cold, and lobsters got caught here but the was about it. The notion that people actually _lived_ here, like, with full lives and families and schools and everything, it was a little surreal.  
  
"You think they're gonna have cable in the room?" Richards asked.  
  
"We aren't here to watch TV," Jacobs answered back.  
  
"We're here to _babysit,_ " Richards said, grinning at Brock. Brock couldn't be sure if this was purely aimed at the Soldier, or if it was also a jab at himself. He was young. Not even old enough to drink just yet. It was usually something that earned a comment from somebody. He wouldn't let it get to him. Being trusted on assignments like this at his age just proved he was competent. Maybe moreso than they were when they were his age. And it got them riled up.  
  
"Like you'd know what that entails," Brock said. "Nobody in their right mind would trust your dumb ass with a child."  
  
"Don't care about babies, just enjoy making 'em," Richards responded, again followed by that annoying cackle of his.  
  
"Christ, _Richards_ ," Jacobs practically whined.  
  
All the while the Soldier sat silently and Brock wondered if it was taking any of this in or not. How present was it until someone gave it an order?  
  
The pitch dark outside was lifted minutely as they made it into the town. The street lamps showed them the empty sidewalks and old brick buildings. It was kind of weird to Brock, thinking a place could look so abandoned yet still be inhabited. But living your whole life in New York could probably skew your perspective. Streets were never empty there, and if they were, something was definitely fucking wrong.  
  
They pulled into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn not long after passing into the town limits. The place was chosen for its location on the outskirts of the town, and the fact that it was a chain, not a local business. The staff wouldn't give a shit about them, wouldn't be asking after their life stories, wouldn't be trying to recommend stuff to do or places to go. They'd issue a key and be done with them and that was all they needed.  
  
"Alright, Rumlow. Go for it."  
  
They sent him for face work. He had no real idea why. Probably because he was still young enough to not put people on guard just by looking at him. Jacobs looked rough and gritty. Richards looked like a jackass. Brock was, apparently, the happy medium. Forgettable enough, displaying no warning signs or indications that he was someone you needed to keep an eye on.  
  
He got the room key with minimal conversation. The room had been payed for before they got here. They were on the third floor, and there was a set of stairs on the outside, meaning none of them had to pass through the lobby.  
  
They did just that. Brock would be lying if he said he got right to sleep. Sleeping knowing that a killing machine like the Soldier was in the room with you was not an easy task, even if it was on your side. Then there was the smell. The air here didn't smell quite right, something Richards had complained about, too. A glance at the map had told them there was an open-air dump in the town, so that probably had plenty to do with it. Finally there was the plain and simple fact that this was not a vacation. It was an assignment. Tomorrow would mean tracking the target. Twenty-four more hours of observation. Then the kill.  
  
He trusted that the Soldier could do it, of course. But there was always the slight chance that something could go wrong. One of them could screw up, inadvertently letting the target know they were here. Somebody in the town might notice them, think they were odd enough to comment on and the target might flee, starting this whole process over again. Then there was the possibility that the Soldier could botch the kill, make it sloppy, leave evidence. That'd mean cleaning up, which  
  
3  
  
none of us wanted to be bothered with." He took a deep drag on the cigarette then, settling his nerves. He didn't realize just how much he'd been avoiding thinking about this. All the details he hadn't wanted to face until he was forced to like this. The smell. How had none of them been tipped off by that fucking smell?  
  
But one of them had, hadn't they? And they just didn't listen.  
  
"You mentioned in your initial mission report that the Soldier began acting strangely upon arrival to the destination. Can you go into a little more detail about this?"  
  
"Yeah," he said, words chased by a fine cloud of grey smoke. He snubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray on the table. "We'd just gotten in. Had a third floor room at the Holiday Inn on Jackson Street. And I mean we all bitched about the smell. The air had-it wasn't _overpowering_ or anything. But you noticed it, sure."  
  
"What'd it smell like?"  
  
"Like...like dampness. Wet leaves you know? Or a basement that ain't been taken care of but without the still musty air. I don't know. It's hard to describe. But we just thought it was the dump in town. What else would it be?" He did laugh a little then, because he knew now. He knew.  
  
"And this led to peculiar behavior from the Soldier?"  
  
"Yeah. It spoke for the first time when we were trying to work out that smell and it said, _'This is not garbage.'_ Jacobs laughed a little, asked it what it thought the smell was if it knew so much. It responded _'this is what death smells like.'_ And we all laughed at that because, come on. Pretty fucking dramatic thing to say right?"  
  
"Definitely a little odd."  
  
"Right? I mean it wasn't a _rotting_ or ripe kind of smell, so none of us knew what the hell it meant by that. But even though what he said made us laugh, it was also kind of unsettling. Was it going to flip out on us? Should we be concerned? Jacobs said it was fine but by morning I think he was starting to get a little nervous."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Brock smiled a little wryly as he thought about it.  
  
4  
  
"The Soldier plugged up the fucking drains with our socks, God fucking damn it!"  
  
He shrank back automatically at the outraged tone of his handler. In one of the beds, Agent Rumlow stirred and rubbed his eyes. "The hell's going on?" he said to Agent Richards, who was sitting on the couch.  
  
"The robot been misbehaving," he said, nodding at the Soldier. He knew without the nod that 'the robot' was him, as he was often referred to this way by many different agents, techs, doctors, and handlers. He did not know what robot meant, and assumed it to be another codename, much like 'asset' or 'fuckface'.  
  
Jacobs stormed out of the bathroom with one of the socks the Soldier had used to stuff down the drains in the sink and the bath tub. The few wash cloths provided to them were slightly too large. The sock was damp, trailing wet hairs that belonged to none of them, as they were blond and quite long. He shook the sock in the Soldier's face and instantly the Soldier felt his cheeks burn red before Jacobs began to demand, "What the hell's this about? What were you thinking?"  
  
The Soldier was ready with a response. He anticipated that they may not understand, as their senses were dull compared to his own. "The smell. It's coming from the drains."  
  
Jacobs smacked the Soldier on the back of the head and he blinked on impact but didn't flinch away. Flinching earned further reprimands, he could remember this much. Perhaps his explanation was not as sufficient as he thought. "No, you dumbass! I told you, it's the dump! It's all the garbage these stupid hicks leave out in the nice warm summer air to bake and rot and waft its delightful fragrance all over their shitty little town!"  
  
Of course Agent Jacobs seemed very certain. A good handler was always confident. The Soldier would've been smart to listen to his handler but-  
  
"The smell is not garbage," he forced himself to say, even if it came out slow and quiet. It was impermissible to disagree with a handler on non-combat related issues. Even those situations were to be approached carefully.  
  
Jacobs punched the Soldier in the face this time, a way of showing that he would not tolerate further malfeasance. The Soldier would do well to understand that. "The smell is whatever the fuck I tell you it is."  
  
The Soldier nodded slowly, eyes on his feet. He was wrong to question his handler, wrong to disagree.  
  
"What's that smell, Soldier?" Jacobs demanded.  
  
"Garbage, sir."  
  
"What the fuck is that smell, Soldier?" Jacobs asked again, this time shoving the sock against the Soldier's nose.  
  
He didn't squirm or fight back. To do so could earn further punishment. He simply needed to give the correct response, which he understood now after this. He had been foolish to misrepresent his handler's explanation the way that he had. "Whatever you tell me it is, sir."  
  
"Meaning?"  
  
"It's garbage, sir."  
  
"You're god damned right," Jacobs said, throwing the sock at the Soldier's face. He indicated the bathroom by pointing his thumb in that direction. "Get in there and pull our clothes out of the drains and the toilet, now."  
  
The Soldier did as he was asked. He'd done enough wrong, and there was only one way to make up for it. He would have to listen very well for the rest of the assignment, questioning nothing. Otherwise, his disobedience may make its way to Secretary Pierce. This never ended well for the Soldier, though, curiously, he could not remember a single specific example. He only knew that if the Secretary were to find out about his misbehavior, he would be punished with much worse than a punch.  
  
He returned to the bathroom, hearing the other agents mutter to each other about him briefly before changing the track of the conversation to what they'd eat for breakfast. The Soldier focused on undoing his mistake, first pulling the two socks out of the drain in the sink. They were damp, vaguely slimey, hairs clinging to them. He thought he was doing well, plugging them up to keep out the smell, the awful death smell-  
  
But it was garbage. It was garbage. He needed to understand and accept that it was garbage.  
  
He moved on to the toilet next. He'd clogged the pipe with one of the hotel towels, as he did not want to use all the available socks on the plumbing. The water was tinted yellow, telling him that Agent Jacobs or one of the others had not noticed the towel until after urinating into the toilet. Perhaps they hadn't noticed at all, only seeing the socks. He ignored it, pulling out the towel with his left hand. He left it dripping on the side of the tub.  
  
Now he looked to the last drain in the room and pulled out one sock, then the next. There was laughter, light and carefree. It came from the drain. His ears were very good, and he could tell easily, even if it made little sense. The laughter came from the drain. He hovered over it, trying to peer inside for recording devices or some other obvious obstruction which didn't belong there.  
  
The laughter continued and yet slowly it changed. Somehow it no longer sounded completely happy. He was not good at subtle expressions of emotion, and some forms of humor eluded him. But this laughter no longer sounded right. It trilled higher, presently turning more frantic, until finally it seemed to him more like screaming.  
  
And then it stopped.  
  
He sat there for a moment, staring down the dark hole of the drain, unsure of what to do. Perhaps it was best to tell Agent Jacobs. If he didn't, and something came of this noise, he could be blamed for not reporting it.  
  
5  
  
"It said there was noise coming out of the drain. From the tub," Brock said. "Think Jacobs' eyes rolled out of his head before he turned around and made the Soldier elaborate. But uh, it's not like it made more sense the second time around."  
  
"What kind of noise?" the man asked, already scribbling something down before Brock even answered.  
  
"Laughter or screaming. Maybe both. It seemed uncertain about what it heard, exactly."  
  
The man nodded slowly, pen flying. "Okay. Did the three of you ever hear anything like this?"  
  
"No. I mean-" Brock stopped, because it wasn't entirely true. "Not...not in the hotel, no. But later? Yeah." Later. He tried not to think yet about later, because later was-  
  
Maybe he was still processing all this shit.  
  
"Underground?"  
  
"Underground," Brock agreed. In the dark. Pitch dark. Closeness. Watery graveyard. Fuck it all, why'd he have the shit luck of being sent on this assignment? He blinked hard, keeping his eyes screwed shut a little longer to push away the thoughts and keep everything in order.  
  
"Okay. And at this juncture, in the hotel, how did Jacobs explain to the Soldier what the sound was?"  
  
Brock tilted his head and narrowed his eyes as he tried to remember. It seemed so inconsequential at the time. It'd been explained to him that the Soldier had mental problems, that he might say or do bizarre things at any given time. The trick to being a good handler was knowing which bizarre things were worth worrying about and which were just white noise. "Think...think he said it was just noise from the room below us or beside us or something. Like maybe it echoed through the plumbing. Or the acoustics of the room were just weird and made it sound like it was coming from the drain."  
  
The other man sighed quietly, like he was vaguely annoyed by something, and Brock quirked a brow at that. But the guy didn't explain and Brock didn't ask, figuring he wouldn't get an answer anyway. "Says here things went largely according to plan after this incident with the Soldier."  
  
"Yeah. We scouted for the target, tried to establish a pattern of movement throughout the town, figure out where and when would be the best time for the Soldier to do his work."  
  
"Did Agent Jacobs ever inform you of who the target was? Why the Soldier was being sent with you to eliminate him?"  
  
Brock considered it for a minute. The target had been old and alone. Hardly a challenge worthy of history's most accomplished assassin. "I guess that was kind of the first red flag about this whole damn thing." He tugged another cigarette out of the pack and strained to keep his hands from shaking. Over a day since he got back and he was still having the shakes, Jesus Christ. "Usually we all get the run down when we leave. But not this time. Figured it must be top fucking secret, since we were trusted with the Soldier but not with this information."  
  
"And Agent Jacobs didn't give you any info?"  
  
Brock stopped packing the cigarette against the table and moved to light it instead. "Not at first. He just told us the guy was a researcher needed taken out. Richards probably never thought to ask why. I did think it but didn't ask it. If we weren't given the explanation during debriefing then I wasn't going to get it now."  
  
"But you found out later?"  
  
He nodded, a wry smile on his face as he exhaled. They found out what the guy was studying out there in that little podunk town, alright. Found out the hard way, perhaps the hardest way there was.  
  
"Do you have any....anomalies to report regarding the first twenty four hours in town? Particularly with respect to the Soldier's behavior?"  
  
"Could write you a fucking book on weird shit the Soldier says and does," Brock answered, leveling a sarcastic look at the other guy.  
  
The man smiled tightly as if he understood this perfectly well but wanted a real response all the same.  
  
"Things went okay at first. Nothing crazy happened that day, really, but it got tense. Richards and I had the first shift of recon. We found the target's home. It was out near this park, which worked out for us because it meant we'd have cover in the little patch of woods there."  
  
"Which park was that?"  
  
"Uh, don't remember a name. Ir was in the south side of town. With a big...like, smokestack thing at one end of it."  
  
"For the record, this was Memorial Park, the aforementioned smokestack being the town's water tower," the man said, picking up the tape recorder as he spoke. He nodded at Brock to continue.  
  
"Well, like I said, Richards and I tracked him during the day. Guy didn't go out much. He went to a pharmacy in town at around lunch time. Had a bite to eat at a diner up the street. Went back to his place by two."  
  
"Nothing of note to report then?"  
  
Brock shook his head and tapped ash into the tray. "No. We got an earful the next mornnig, though."  
  
"Regarding?"  
  
He smiled, but it wasn't a pleasant one. "The Soldier."  
  
6  
  
The night was warm and occasionally lit by tiny pinpoints of light. The Soldier did not like them. They were distracting. When he mentioned them, Jacobs explained over the comm that they were fireflies-bugs. Nothing to be concerned with. But it was difficult for the Soldier to ignore them when they seemed, out of the corner of his eye, a bit like a reflection, a glare, a distant flashlight or headlight of a car.  
  
Still, it was necessary that he be on his best behavior given his earlier transgression. He had been quiet and obedient all day, though little had been required of him while Agents Rumlow and Richards performed daytime duties. He had checked over their weapons one final time for any issues which may need to be addressed. There were none, and they did not require many. The target was old and without protection. If the Soldier thought about it for very long, he would realize that including him on this mission seemed slightly excessive. Any one agent could kill this man and dispose of him with minimal effort and evidence. But it was not the Soldier's place to question why he was sent where he was. It was his place to do as he was told.  
  
Four hours passed quietly, save for the occasional buzz of crickets. The target did not leave his home. Lights in his home were the only indication of which room he was currently occupying. And then, eventually, they were all extinguished. Still, it was necessary to be watchful. The target could leave at any time, and if he did, they needed to know. They had to be certain of his habits, the places he may frequent, what paths he took through the town, any contacts he might make along the way. It did not do well to walk in and shoot him when he may have regular meetings with others at any time. This could lead to an undesirable situation wherein their work could be discovered. This could mean more casualities, or unwanted exposure.  
  
So they watched, and waited. No neighbors came or went, meaning it was likely that no one would hear or see them if they chose to approach the target overnight. The target did not leave his home and no one came to him. Agent Jacobs checked in regularly, ensuring that the Soldier was still present and that their comms were functional. Otherwise they did not speak.  
  
It was approximately 0415 when the Soldier heard the noise in the park behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to find the source of it. It was the sound of a door flying open, smacking hard against the wall. He went still, searching the clearing of the park for movement. Children played in parks, and he was to avoid killing them at all costs. This was because dead children attracted very much attention. The Soldier thought, secretly of course, that it was good. He did not want to kill children. They were small and helpless and could not hurt others the way that adults could, and as such, they could not deserve such severe punishment.  
  
Then he saw movement. He heard more noise, only now there was music. It came from the open door at the base of the tower. It did not sound like normal music which he sometimes heard come from the radio, or from the headphones some agents or techs wore. There were no words to accompany the song. It sounded light and carefree and he fought to identify what sort of music it was but he failed. He was not made to know music.  
  
" _Misha!"  
  
_ He held his breath when he heard her cry out his name in a giddy, excited voice. She called from the door of the tower. It was...  
  
He struggled to recall but slowly, the memories came. One of the little Spiders he had been once assigned to train. Natalia. How long had it been? Decades? Mere years? He couldn't remember but he knew her round face and bright silvery eyes. She wore the same uniform they'd all worn, a white shirt with a blue, knee length skirt. Orange buttons stood out brightly against the white of her shirt and she waved to him now, smiling brightly.  
  
" _Misha!"_ she called again in Russian. " _Misha, we miss you! We miss the games w_ _e used to_ _play."  
  
_ The games were not games at all because he was not made to play. He was made to kill. Made to teach them how to do the same as him. But they taught him things in return, when they thought no one was watching. They taught him nursery rhymes, and games where they clapped their hands and counted higher and higher. They called him Misha, their bear in the circus that was their strange life, and they were gymnasts and acrobats.  
  
He swallowed then, because it was not his place to think any of it had been strange.  
  
"Soldier, check."  
  
He blinked hard and Natalia still called to him. "Sir."  
  
The line went silent again but then he thought this may be worth reporting. If the Spiders knew where he was, it could be bad. No one was meant to know where he was, save his handlers. " _Misha, don't you hear it? The music? It's the circus. We told you we'd show you_ _a real one some_ _day. The elephants stand up tall as towers, and the bears do handstands! Won't you come see?"  
  
_ He stepped closer and spoke into his comm, "Sir, there is a problem."  
  
"What?" Jacobs came back quickly.  
  
"Someone. In the park. She- _Natalia_ _tam._ "  
  
"Fuck," he heard Jacobs mutter. "Stay put, Soldier. Don't move, don't engage anyone just stay-"  
  
" _Misha, won't you come see? Come see the lions jump through_ _flaming_ _hoops! We'll have candy and peanuts, and they'll make us balloons...They float so pretty, Misha. Bright and colorful. They float, Misha, just like we will."  
  
_ He walked closer to her. She smiled widely and something was wrong, in her face, but he could not place it. It wasn't his purpose to decide things like that. If the Secretary were here, he would know. But her eyes..silvery and cold and-  
  
They'd been green, before. He stopped a few meters from her, staring at her small, pale form. She was like a paper doll, some fake, cut-out thing in the shape of a little girl blotting out the pitch darkness behind her. She frowned deeply and he felt shame at making her do so. " _Don't you want to see it, Misha? You promised one day that we would. And it's awfully cruel to break promises..."  
  
_ Had he promised any such thing? It would have been against the rules. And yet...wasn't that why the Russians had sold him to America? Because he didn't listen well once he'd been tasked with training the Spiders? Because he was _bad?  
  
_ "Soldier!"  
  
The command cut through the air and made his every muscle tense. He could hear suddenly heavy footsteps crashing through the woods behind him and he turned, fearful. He had disobeyed his handler. His second infraction in a single twenty-four hours.  
  
But he could show Commander Jacobs. Natalia was _here_ and she shouldn't be. That was a problem he would be worse off ignoring. So he pointed as his handler approached, pointed to the tower where she stood and-  
  
And no one was there at all. The door was closed. Locked with a chain and heavy padlock. He felt his brows pull together in confusion and deep inside some unsettling feeling began to sink into his stomach. Something he didn't feel often in the field. It was fear, he realized, incongruous here where he should be certain and calm and confident. This fear, it belonged back at base, where doctors and machines gave him good reason to feel it.  
  
"Soldier, report."  
  
What else could he say but what he'd seen, even if he knew it'd anger his handler?  
  
7  
  
"Did Jacobs tell you and Richards what had happened at the time?"  
  
Brock shook his head. "Not all of it. He just said the Soldier was malfunctioning."  
  
He watched the pen scratch at the paper and waited for the next question to come when it stopped. "Okay. You say 'not all of it'. So what did he tell you, exactly?"  
  
His eyes screwed shut as he focused, trying to remember. After all that had happened, the events were getting kind of muddled in his mind. "He told us that the Soldier was becoming unstable. Like I said this was my second time working with it, ever, so of course I asked what the fuck that was supposed to mean. I'd heard the stories. Heard of it snapping and killing the wrong person. So knowing it was starting to crack didn't make me happy."  
  
The other guy nodded. "The Soldier typically remains functional for a seventy-two hour period before maintenance is required. So a breakdown happening within the first day or so is quite unusual."  
  
Brock snorted. "Yeah. Jacobs mentioned that part. Said that was why we had to do the hit on our own and just get our asses back to DC." He glanced at the tape recorder and grimaced. He'd never been part of an interview like this and he had no idea if his language was a little too casual.  
  
Bryan or Ryan never objected or warned him to watch it though, instead continuing with the questions. "So Jacobs wanted the three of you to proceed with eliminating the target?"  
  
"No. The job only required two of us. One to make the shot. The other would be there just to expedite the clean-up process." He snuffed out the cigarette and told himself it'd be the last one. At least til he was out of here. "That's when I really started to wonder why the hell we needed the Soldier at all for this. Seemed to me like we didn't." He looked up at the guy as he spoke the next part, carefully gauging his reaction. "At least, not for the stated target."  
  
He got nothing back. Like they thought he hadn't figured this out by now. Like he wasn't just trying to get them to admit it to him. "So I take it you and Jacobs were sent to deal with the target while Richards remained back at the hotel with the Soldier?"  
  
Brock nodded, trying not to remember the scene they'd walked in on when they returned to the room.  
  
"And when you and Jacobs left to complete the assignment, was that the last time you saw Agent Richards alive?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
More notations made in the margins of the paper. "Tell me what happened when you returned to the hotel room."  
  
He was an idiot to think that'd been his last cigarette of the night. "We were pulling into the parking lot and I remember wondering  
  
8  
  
if it'll listen to Richards if you aren't there?"  
  
"That's the order I gave it. Left Richards with a stun baton and even if it doesn't understand words, it'll understand _that._ " Jacobs killed the engine. Brock noticed that his hands were shaking. Some people got like that after a kill. Adrenaline. He hadn't known Jacobs to be one of them.  
  
Before they got out of the car, Brock looked him in the eye and asked, "Why'd they have us take it with us? The Soldier?"  
  
Jacobs' eyes flicked from Brock to the steering wheel and back to Brock again. He looked irritated. "I don't know why the brass does what they do, I just do what I'm told. I advise you to do the same, if you want to make it very far."  
  
Brock let out a breath through his nose but didn't ask further questions. He knew when he'd hit a brick wall.  
  
They left the car, backpacks in tow. Anyone who saw them might think they were a pretty typical sight of hotel parking lots. Maybe an uncle and nephew or something. They looked too different to be father and son, but the age bracket was pretty close. A target as simple as this one didn't require much in the way of armor and weapons, so everything could stow away neatly in their packs. They were even dressed casually enough.  
  
Jacobs unlocked the room and called out for Richards. Brock closed and locked the door behind him, huffing a laugh when he saw the bastard had passed out on one of the beds. Jacobs snapped his name but Richards didn't even stir. That's when Brock saw the Soldier's reflection in the mirror. He was kneeling beside the tub, leaning into it. There was a smear of blood against the otherwise spotless porcelain.  
  
"Shit," Jacobs said on a breath when he finally rolled Richards onto his back. His eyes were bloody, messy gobs, streaking red tear tracks over his cheeks to his ears.  
  
The two of them didn't hesitate to snatch their sidearms out of their backpacks. Brock knew standard practice if the Soldier was violent towards team members was to do anything you could to subdue it, short of killing it. It'd recover just fine after having its kneecaps blown out.  
  
"Soldier," Jacobs said evenly, voice not betraying the fact that he'd just found the corpse of one of their party on the bed. "What're you doing?" He couldn't see the mirror that reflected the bathroom, not from the angle he was at. Brock could, and he watched it like a hawk. The Soldier was fast, much faster than either of them had any hope of being. If they were going to stand a chance, he had to pay every ounce of attention to that reflection.  
  
He saw the Soldier's shoulders stiffen. Then heard him respond softly, "Receiving an assignment, sir."  
  
"From who?"  
  
"Secretary Pierce."  
  
Brock fought hard against the urge to exchange glances with Jacobs. There was no way Pierce contacted the Soldier. He had no safe way of doing so. Even if he had, it made little sense for him to issue an order like this.  
  
"What did he tell you to do?" Jacobs continued, creeping towards the bathroom. Brock tensed, waiting for some inevitable violence to explode.  
  
"To put out Agent Richards' eyes." Brock saw the Soldier tilt its head, as if listening for something. Then it sat up and turned to Jacobs. It didn't look concerned or even confused about the alleged assignment it'd been given. Didn't question the purpose of it. It just acted. Just did what it was told. "Then he left."  
  
"You saw him?" Jacobs asked, never letting his finger off the trigger even if his voice didn't betray the rising tension.  
  
The Soldier shook its head then, and looked back into the tub. "I heard him. In the drain."  
  
Brock wanted out, now. He didn't even want to take the Soldier along with them, was perfectly content to leave it here with the voices it heard in sewer pipes.  
  
"I want you to get out of the bathroom, Soldier," Jacobs ordered finally. His voice remained even and calm and that somehow made it all worse. If this was just nothing, like the time with the socks, Jacobs would be berating and cursing at the Soldier. But all this cautious, careful tone and language was like a warning of its own. Tread lightly, no quick movements.

Somehow, Brock expected the Soldier's freak-out would be more vicious, loud, aggressive. But it was as quiet and soft-spoken as ever as it looked over its shoulder and asked, "But what if he comes back?"  
  
Jacobs stared but recovered. "If Secretary Pierce has further orders for you, he'll contact me, now that I'm here. Understand?"  
  
The Soldier's eyes lowered minutely as if it were considering the logic in this. Then it looked up and said, "Understood." It stood up and Brock got a good look for the first time at the blood on its hands. Both thumbs were coated in dark red, some of it grossly chunky and he almost burst out laughing at the thought of someone having a 'red thumb'. The way others might have a knack for gardening and watching things grow, the Soldier had a knack for murdering and watching things die.  
  
"Clean your hands off," Jacobs ordered. The Soldier did so without question or argument. It was more than a bit surreal, the way Jacobs handled all of this but Brock decided maybe this was the best way to do it. Better than a gun fight. Better than the Soldier turning on them.  
  
But then, had Richards realized what was happening until it was too late? Maybe that was more terrifying then, the thought that the Soldier had not telegraphed its intentions in any obvious way. That maybe it could simply walk right up to you, calmly, looking you over with its big doe-like eyes before it mashed yours against your brainstem with its thumbs.  
  
"We need to get it back to DC," Jacobs muttered to him as quietly as he could.  
  
"How? What if it freaks out while we're driving back or-"  
  
"We go back there without it they're going to send our asses right back here and I don't know about you, but I have _no_ interest in coming back to this fucking town."  
  
Brock glanced up at Jacobs and that was when he became certain that the man knew something he didn't. Because, despite the anger in his tone, his eyes made plain it was all bravado to hide a very real and serious fear. But fear of what, exactly? The Soldier? Or something else? Why the specific distaste for this town? Why had the Soldier been sent along to begin with? Chances are he wouldn't get an answer if he asked so he didn't bother. The focus needed to be put in getting out of here alive, with the thing that could kill them at any moment in tow. So he nodded and began to pack his things.  
  
"Soldier," Jacobs called evenly. The Soldier turned away from the sink to look at him. "You're going to help me  
  
9  
  
carry Richards' body back to the car. We figured it'd look more suspicious to have something wrapped up in a sheet, and have the maids report the item missing or something. We could pass him off as drunk or whatever if someone saw us but it was the middle of the night so I figured that wouldn't be a problem."  
  
The guy nodded. "And did anyone see you?"  
  
"No. Not that I'm aware of."  
  
"Were you concerned about being in a vehicle with the Soldier for roughly ten hours?"  
  
Brock laughed. "Yeah, a little. But it was like Jacobs said, we didn't have much choice. If we came back without it, we'd be sent right back to get it. At least at the time it still seemed calm and like it'd listen to Jacobs when he gave it orders."  
  
"So the assignment was complete," the other guy said as if in review. "The asset was malfunctioning. Your team had suffered a casualty at the hands of the asset as a result. And at about two forty-five AM on May 27th, the remainder of the team attempted to return to base."  
  
"Correct."  
  
"Alright. What prevented that from happening?"  
  
Brock stared at a spot on the metal surface of the table as he reviewed it in his head. Played it back like a horror movie he didn't really want to watch. The dark little road at night, with pitch black woods to their right. The confusion over which direction they were headed. The way Brock couldn't bring himself to not keep one eye on the Soldier and maybe Jacobs had had the same problem considering what happened. And he said, "There was something  
  
10  
  
in the fucking road!"  
  
It all happened a little too fast for Brock to parse. He'd been trying to keep his eyes on the map, the road, and the Soldier all at once. They'd taken a wrong turn out of the hotel and while it wasn't like this was a massive town to get lost in, it wasn't exactly the best omen about the trip back. He'd directed them back towards Route 2 easily enough, it was just going to add a few minutes to the trip. They'd passed through the silent downtown, all two or three intersections of it. Then the street got darker, the street lights few and far between. There were no houses on their right at all, just a slope with woods at the bottom.  
  
He'd glanced up and then he'd seen it and his brain was split between wondering what the fuck his problem was and shouting at Jacobs. It was a clown. He knew that for sure. The headlights seemed to briefly gleam against the white greasepaint of its face and the silvery suit it wore. It held a hand over its mouth as if in mock surprise as the car barrelled towards it and that's when Jacobs shouted out and cranked the wheel to avoid hitting the fucking moron.  
  
The car headed down the slope. Plants screeched and snapped as the underside of the car plowed through and over them. Brock could hardly believe this was happening and distantly he heard Richards body smack limply into the back of his seat. Jacobs tried to get control of the vehicle and the brakes were grinding noisily and-  
  
The airbags flew out in time with the squealing sound of crumpling metal when they smashed head first into a tree big enough to stop their forward momentum. Brock had covered his head in some attempt to protect himself but it was useless against whiplash anyway. He felt blood in his nose but didn't think anything was broken.  
  
"Fuck!" Jacobs shouted frantically. He punched the airbag a few more times, each impact punctuated with another curse. Then, surprising Brock, his hand shot back to the rear footwells and he didn't draw back until he had a gun in hand.  
  
"What the hell're you planning to do with that?" Brock hissed, not following his superior's logic here.  
  
"We have to get the hell out of here," Jacobs said. "Not another fucking minute, you hear me? We get out and assess the damage. If the vehicle isn't viable, we're hotwiring something. Admin can cover it up if they want, I don't give a fuck."  
  
Brock was enjoying the frantic tone in Jacobs' voice less and less. He glanced back at the Soldier, who seemed to hardly have noticed they'd even been in a wreck. It was sitting patiently, waiting for orders. "Calm down. It was just an accident. That dumbass back there on the road was probably some drunk coming home from a party or something." It didn't do them any good to get worked up more than they already were. That lead to mistakes.  
  
Jacobs laughed cynically at that. "You're young still and you got a lot to learn, Rumlow. But you're smart. Otherwise you wouldn't be here, right?" He dug around in the back again for another gun.  
  
Brock stared and shrugged slowly, too far past concerned now to argue.  
  
"I know you figured this assignment to be easy enough to not require the Soldier." He pulled a sidearm from one of the bags, checked it was loaded, and handed it off to Brock. "Get out of the car and watch my back. If anything moves, any fucking thing at all, you shoot it, hear me?"  
  
"But-"  
  
"You aren't getting it," Jacobs snapped. He looked out the window beside him, searching for only God knew what. Maybe some drunk in a clown get up. If he let Jacobs shoot some civilians, he may as well have done it himself, as far as their superior would be concerned.  
  
"Because you aren't explaining anything," Brock snapped back.  
  
Jacobs snarled angrily as he practically kicked open his door. Brock exited the vehicle too. He didn't plan on shooting anything that didn't look like a threat but if it gave Jacobs the peace of mind to look over the car, he'd give it. Not that he thought they were salvaging this thing. They definitely weren't driving it down any highways without attracting attention, and that wasn't something they needed now. Nonetheless, Jacobs moved to the hood and started to look the damn thing over like they had a chance. "The researcher we came here for," Jacobs said in a low voice as he worked. "You're right. We didn't need the Soldier to deal with him. But that's not why they fucking sent it with us."  
  
"What?" Brock spat. Nothing moved in the darkness of the woods but he still watched, and the expectation that he would find something set him on edge.  
  
"There is _something_ here," Jacobs answered. "Something in this fucking town. Not even Hydra knows what the hell it is, but they know it's dangerous. Maybe more dangerous than the asset, even. It was supposed to help keep us safe but-"  
  
Brock hardly had the time to process this before the Soldier suddenly threw open the door, stock of its carbine snug against its shoulder. Brock swung around quick, keeping the Soldier's torso in his sightlines. Jacobs did the same, but the Soldier wasn't even paying attention to them. The barrel of its gun was directed away from them, out into the woods.  
  
Brock couldn't bring himself to glance out that way. Not for fear he'd find something frightening, but because he was certain that was when the Soldier would turn on him, shoot him when he was distracted.  
  
But then Jacobs hissed out a curse under his breath and Brock saw him change his aim, too. Same direction as the Soldier, out into the woods. Brock spared himself the glance and he saw someone out there. Someone big, sturdy looking. He looked back at the Soldier and that was when he noticed how wide its eyes were. How tightly it gripped its weapon. Like it was afraid.  
  
He looked back out at the shape in the woods and drew closer to Jacobs and the Soldier and asked, "Who the  
  
11  
  
hell it was. But Jacobs and the Soldier both seemed to know."  
  
The guy noted something again, this one the longest so far. Brock couldn't read it from where he sat and so he just listened as the pen scratched across the page. "At this point did Agent Jacobs continue to try to get the vehicle working again?"  
  
"No. We had to deal with whoever was out there."  
  
"What did you think about Jacobs' explanation regarding your assignment? About the inclusion of the Soldier?"  
  
Brock watched the guy carefully but he never really gave away what he was thinking, or what kind of answer he was after. Was Brock treading a thin line here? Was there a wrong answer, and if so, what would happen if he gave it? "I thought he was cracking. Maybe the stress was too much. What with Richards being dead, the Soldier having some kind of break down or whatever, and then this car wreck, I thought maybe...something just snapped."  
  
"Do you still think that now?"  
  
He was silent for a moment but then he answered truthfully. "No."  
  
Another note. Brock started in on another cigarette while he waited for the guy to finish writing. "Okay. You mentioned seeing someone in the road. And you're certain they were dressed like a clown?"  
  
"Yeah. You remember shit that weird. Even had the balloons and everything."  
  
No note this time, but the guy double checked something first before continuing. "So after the wreck, the three of you were approached by...by this individual." Brock nodded. "You noticed their presence put the Soldier on edge, you said."  
  
"Yeah. It's not like normal people. It's-I guess it's kind of more like a kid in that way. Wears everything plain on its face and in its posture. It's like nobody taught it how to hide things. I mean, you can read it like a book, more or less."  
  
At that the man reacted, a small quirk of the lips into a slight smile. "You're correct. But that sort of literacy doesn't come naturally to everyone." He made a note, presumably to do with that fact. Brock didn't really think anything of it then but it was eventually a pattern his superiors would recognize in his future work with the Soldier. The man looked up now, face reset to the neutral expression he'd been wearing for nearly the entire interview. "Was the Soldier given a chance to explain to you why it was afraid then?"  
  
"Later, yes."  
  
"Tell me what happened after the wreck. The fight in the woods."  
  
Brock inhaled smock laced with nicotine, tabacco, and whatever other poisons they packed into the little paper tube. He needed every ounce of them to get him through the rest of this.  
  
12  
  
The Soldier stared and felt shame because of it. He knew he should be moving. Should be fighting back, while his opponent was still far enough away to prevent engaging in hand-to-hand combat. But his body refused to respond, the fear too strong. Fear of losing, fear of his own inferiority. He knew he simply was not powerful enough to fight Josef and win.  
  
It never occurred to him why to question why Josef was here to begin with. But then if Natalia knew where he was, then maybe it simply followed that Josef would be told as well.  
  
"Take another fucking step and I blow your God damned brains out," Commander Jacobs shouted out into the darkness. But he must know. Josef was faster than him, too. Faster than all of them.  
  
That was when he spoke. _"_ _Y_ _ou know you can not win. You never have. Not against me, runt."  
  
_ The Soldier didn't think when he pulled the trigger, spraying the woods with bullets. It was not calculated, not careful, not his best. But what did it matter when his best wasn't good enough, not against him? His breath came in short, sharp inhalations through his nose and his wide eyes searched the dark to see if any of his bullets had found a home in warm flesh.  
  
"Where the fuck did he go?" Agent Rumlow whispered.  
  
" _What a useless thing you are now."_  
  
They all spun in the direction of the voice, behind them now, on the other side of the car. Rumlow and Jacobs dropped low, using the vehicle for cover, but the Soldier forced himself to vault across the hood and fire. The bullets stopped and Josef laughed, but his voice seemed to come from everywhere. He could no longer see him in the woods, where he had been mere moments ago. The Soldier's right arm shook with adrenaline, his knees felt light as air, and no matter how much breath he inhaled, it never seemed to be enough.  
  
_"So useless they did not even bother to give you a_ name. _"  
_  
He choked out a noise when he felt strong fingers grasp him by the throat and he was lifted off the ground. Like some stupid animal next in line for a slaughterhouse, he stared uselessly at Josef for a moment before he thought to fight back. People could be killed, easily. But Josef, and the other Soldiers, they were not mere people.  
  
Still he kicked as hard as he could and when Josef grinned his teeth seemed sharp like a beasts. And he had never known him to do that before, to smile, to grin, tauntingly or at all. " _I can name you, then. I can baptize you in your own blood, if you'd like, runt. I can drag your broken, inferior form back to your master and make him know how mistaken he was for choosing_ you. _"_  
  
With a jerk of his arm, Josef threw him against something hard, something made of cement. His breath left his lungs. Gunshots rang out and he heard, vaguely, Agent Rumlow and Commander Jacobs shouting for him. He pushed himself up, imagined Secretary Pierce's voice in his head ordering him to move faster, stronger, to _win_ and-  
  
He was wrenched up by his hair and he felt for a knife that should've been at his side but wasn't. Josef bared his teeth again in another vicious grin and he said, _"Now listen closely, runt, and we'll see if you float._ "  
  
The Soldier gritted his teeth and Josef opened his mouth wide, wide, too wide, teeth like needles and then he was gone.  
  
"Soldier! Soldier, report!"  
  
Jacobs' order should've made him respond instantly, and the words did hit his mind like a hammer. But he found himself staring and gasping, anticipating another attack. His eyes wandered the woods and he searched for movement. There was Jacobs, jogging towards him. Rumlow not too far behind, scanning the dark around them. Smart one, he may last. Not many did.  
  
"Soldier!"  
  
He blinked then, tried to focus on Jacobs but...  
  
_"Soldier. You know I don't tolerate embarrassments like these. Do I?"  
  
_ Secretary Pierce would be ashamed of him, to know his most valuable weapon had proven it had flaws. Weaknesses. That it could be defeated. He gritted his teeth against the hot feeling on his cheeks and ears before he answered, "No sir." It never occurred to him to wonder where, exactly, the Secretary's voice had come from.  
  
"What?" Jacobs asked, out of breath.  
  
_"Well, then finish this up. Get down there and make things right, or don't bother coming back at all. Do you understand, Soldier?"  
  
_ "Yes, sir," he answered, forcing himself to his feet. He saw the glint of a blade in the leaves and returned the fallen knife to its place at his side.  
  
"Soldier, what are you doing?" Jacobs demanded.  
  
"Oh no, fuck that, no no no," he heard Agent Rumlow groan as the Soldier shoved away the cover from the pipe he'd been thrown into by Josef. That was where he'd gone. Down into the sewer. And if he could not find him and kill him, the Secretary would be so upset. So _angry_ with him and he didn't _want_ that.  
  
"Soldier do _not_ fucking go down there, do you hear me?" Jacobs hissed but his voice shook. Like maybe he was also afraid.  
  
It didn't matter. The Soldier could not ignore the orders he'd been given. So he descended into the pitch dark underground.  
  
13  
  
"Did the Soldier explain why it went into the sewer?"  
  
"No. It wouldn't listen to Jacobs and even I tried to tell it to stop." Brock shrugged. He hadn't expected his warnings to mean anything to the Soldier. He was too low on the totem pole at this point. "It just kept going." He inhaled deeply and let the breath out in a sigh. "And we had to follow."  
  
"So at no point did you and Jacobs think to split up? That one of you might call for backup and another would follow the Soldier?"  
  
Brock laughed cynically at that. "I wasn't about to abandon Jacobs to whatever the hell was going on. I already told you, he was on edge. It wouldn't have helped his chances at all if I just fucked off and got on the phone with you guys. Besides, I knew we were expected to give hourly updates and when one didn't come, I figured someone would get sent out after us. Or, after the Soldier, at least."  
  
The guy noted this quickly and Brock wondered what it said about him, good or bad.  
  
"What _did_ you think was going on at this point?"  
  
He shrugged. "Hard to say. Most of me wanted to think Jacobs was cracked. Not that I wished him ill. It's just, that's easier to deal with than the idea that there is some...some dangerous _thing_ running around underground and you're going after it." He crushed his cigarette out and didn't bother with the pretense of hesitating to start another one. "But part of me. I think I was starting to believe what Jacobs was saying."  
  
"Did he explain to you who it was that appeared to attack the Soldier?"  
  
Brock nodded. "Yeah. He told me about the Soviets' other Winter Soldiers. Told me I wasn't really clear to know about it but he seemed pretty fucking done with rules and regulations by then. He said they had five of them, but that they were juiced up on something even stronger than whatever our asset was pumped with. That made them more of a threat than him. So at first I thought that's what Jacobs meant, when he said there was something here worse than the Soldier."  
  
"When did you begin to suspect otherwise?"  
  
"Pretty soon after we got down into the sewers. We'd been  
  
14  
  
walking for half a fucking hour now, where the hell did he go?" Jacobs muttered.  
  
They'd inadvertently given the Soldier a head start when they ran back to the car for better guns and some flashlights. They hadn't even brought any kind of armor. Why would they? This was supposed to be something fairly fucking simple. He was going to have a long talk with whatever asshole thought it was a smart idea to withhold information from a team sent out to places one party knew to be dangerous but the other didn't. Whatever the case, the ten or so minutes it'd taken them to gather their things and get back to the sewer had given the Soldier plenty of time to go after whatever it was it thought it was looking for down here.  
  
Underground, water had two speeds: trickle and rush. Thankfully the rushing was usually distant. But it didn't help the smell any. He tried to ignore the fact that their boots made squelching sounds every time they took a step. But it was hard to ignore, since they were tracking the Soldier by way of the footprints it left in the layer of shit and mud and rot on the ground.  
  
They didn't get to use that method for long, since the pipe filled with enough water to cover the tracks. At that point, which was about twenty minutes in, Jacobs cursed loudly and slammed a fist into the cement beside him. "We don't split up," Jacobs snapped then.  
  
"Wouldn't dream of it," Brock answered, continuing to walk forward. There was a T-junction here, and he aimed his flashlight down both corridors. He grimaced when the beam landed on human remains. Younger ones, he thought. Definitely not a full grown adult. Decades old, at least. Not fresh at all. "So that guy, the other Soldier. He works for the Russians?"  
  
"Yeah, but that wasn't really him," Jacobs said in an agitated voice. He was rubbing his eyes with a shaking hand. "Don't you get it? The clown, the other Soldier, the little girl it says it saw at the park-fuck, even getting orders from Pierce down the drain! It's all because of the fucking thing down here!"  
  
Brock curled a lip and picked a direction since his alleged boss didn't seem to keen on moving forward. Maybe it was better that he was left unaware of the supposed 'truth' after all. "I wasn't included in the loop, remember?" he said, keeping his voice light. Jacobs was pissed enough for the both of them anyway.  
  
"That's not my decision to make," Jacobs argued back even though Brock wasn't interested in picking a fight. "The higher-ups-they thought this was a need-to-know thing. That if the whole team knew, things could..."  
  
Brock smiled a condescending smile that Jacobs couldn't see. "Go wrong?"  
  
"Would you have believed them if they told you? I fucking didn't. Evil clowns belong in shitty slasher movies, not quaint little nowhere towns," Jacobs spat back. He walked with his back to Brock, covering their six. Nothing seemed to follow them and the thundering of water seemed farther away now. "The thing, whatever it is, it's been here a long time. Maybe millions of years."  
  
If Brock had a free hand he would've made a jerk-off motion, whether Jacobs would see or not. Was it so hard to believe the Soviets had sent their Soldier after the asset so they'd be the only ones with a supersoldier? The asset had a propensity for breakdowns, so should they really be surprised it heard voices in a drainpipe and killed a team mate? The latter had definitely happened before and it might happen again if they didn't keep their shit together here and focus.  
  
"You laugh but you saw that fucking clown. It wanted us to crash."  
  
"I told you. It was probably some drunk." Jacobs laughed and it was Brock's turned to be annoyed. "Look, what do you want me to do? Agree with you that an immortal, shape-shifting clown is out to kill us? You're supposed to fucking be the boss here, act like it!"  
  
"Why'd they send the Soldier, Rumlow?"  
  
He grimaced, unable to answer the question. If there was something dangerous here, it would make sense to send your most dangerous as well in an attempt to level the playing field.  
  
"To keep us _safe._ But it backfired. It fucking backfired. This thing, it knew! It went right for the fucking Soldier."  
  
Brock tried not to let Jacobs' hysteria get to him. Maybe he could allow that there was some weird shit going on here tonight. That didn't mean it had to be something this insane, some million year old conspiracy. Even if it was precisely the sort of thing Hydra might be interested in having a hold of. "Come on," Brock said instead of arguing. It would only hurt their chances of finding the Soldier if they started going at each other's throats. "I think I see some footprints over here."  
  
15  
  
The Soldier crawled on his stomach, the pipe having become too narrow for him to fit otherwise. His night vision was superior to the average human's, but not in pitch darkness, where no light reflected at all. He moved slowly, listened carefully, but all he felt and heard was water. Dripping, sloshing, rushing in the distance. He felt with his right hand, the left not sensitive enough. He'd tried to do so eariler and left gouges in the cement.  
  
And then there was open air where he extended his hand. Carefully and quietly as he could, he pushed himself forward and there was a short, but sheer drop. He caught himself, rolling to a crouch and trying to see. Trying to hear.  
  
But there was nothing. Briefly he wondered if this is what it was like to be unborn before he forced himself to focus and move forward. Josef was here, somewhere, and he could not stop until he found him and killed him.  
  
He found a wall finally and followed it, his right hand leading the way for him. It led him to a corner. He continued.  
  
Voices from behind him. He focused until he found that he recognized them. Agent Rumlow and Commander Jacobs. Would they help him? Or attempt to stop him, as they had before? He could not afford to take a chance and pressed onward, searching for the next passage, willing one to appear as he could not turn around now, and-  
  
His fingers brushed over a new material. Maybe it was wood. He wasn't certain. But it was low. He crouched, pushed, and it moved. He inhaled deeply, could smell mud and feces and mold and death. More than anything, he smelled death. Just as he had tried to warn Commander Jacobs on day one.  
  
But it was garbage. That's what he'd been ordered to believe and so he must accommodate that.  
  
He crawled through the opening, on hands and knees this time, and found the texture of the floor had changed. It was no longer covered in grime and detritus, but it was cobbled brick. He could see dimly, the slightest light coming from somewhere. Behind him he heard feet moving through water. In front of him, he saw webs. Enormous, gauzy webs, and his eyes followed them up. Bodies were tangled there, some dessicated and old, others more fresh. Most of them were children. Briefly he was seized with panic when he thought of Natalia, of all the little Spiders, but no. None of them were here.  
  
Suddenly, he understood, none of them had _ever_ been here.  
  
He turned and was struck dumb for a brief moment when he saw it. A spider, nearly five meters tall. It reared on legs as thick around as any human's, he moved for the knife at his side. His heart thudded in his chest, adrenaline was once again dumped into his blood stream, he felt a cold sweat break beneath the layers of grime and clothing. It opened its mouth, jaw seeming to unhinge and stretch as it screeched at him. Vaguely, he thought he heard Agent Rumlow shout for him to move, to fight, to do something.  
  
But the light in the spider's mouth had him transfixed. Flaming, bright, orange light. Something moved in the light, fuzzy, too much, oh God so much he was never meant to see this never meant to know it was horrible horrible-  
  
He couldn't move, could only stare into that awful, orange light. He would never move again, he realized all at once. He had failed and this was the end of the line.  
  
The end of the line? Alone?  
  
Wasn't someone meant to be with him, at the end-  
  
16  
  
Brock had spotted the marks in the cement. Four short little lines that lined up pretty niceley with his own fingers. That tipped them off pretty clearly about which direction the Soldier had gone on in search of Josef. "Come on," he said to Jacobs.  
  
"Shit," he muttered back as his flashlight swept over the path. It narrowed significantly, which meant they'd be crawling from here until it opened up again. If it did at all. Brock figured there was a chance the Soldier found the way impassable and had turned around, but there was only one way for them to know that for sure.  
  
Instead of mentioning how this might all be a waste of time, he clapped Jacobs on the shoulder and said with fake cheer, "It sure is, boss. Sure is." And he got down and did what needed doing, like any good soldier would.  
  
Neither of them vomited even once. It was one thing to be about six feet away from the layer of shit your were walking through. It was another thing entirely to have your nose inches from it, to feel it soak into your clothes, to feel your arm smear it against the ground beneath you as you moved. So yeah, he wanted to vomit, but he kept it down. He had to focus. Every moment they hesitated was another the Soldier was putting distance between them, extending their stay in this disgusting sewer in this awful town.  
  
He tried to keep that focus and failed as his mind wandered to thoughts about what Jacobs had said. He hated that it made some degree of sense. Hated that he couldn't figure out a very good rationale for the Soldier being included in this mission besides the one Jacobs had offered. Even if Brock had latched onto his own explanation about Josef being sent to kill the Soldier fairly quickly, it made no sense in the end. The Soviets who owned the other Soldiers were Hydra, just like the Americans who owned the asset.  
  
Beyond that, he had to accept that there were times during the brief shootout where Josef had quite simply disappeared and reappeared, as if from nowhere. Even if the bastard was fast, there was no reason Brock shouldn't have been able to track his movements like that.  
  
And yeah. The clown had looked fucking creepy, okay?  
  
He turned his attention forward as he noticed the beam of his flashlight seemed to settle much farther away. It took him a moment but he realized then that the pipe they were crawling in was going to open up into a bigger area. Which was pretty God damned welcome at this point. He called out to Jacobs, telling him to prepare for a slight drop, and then he pushed himself out into the open.  
  
Brock snapped around quick when he heard movement, and he chase the sound with his flashlight as Jacobs crawled out next, gagging all the while. Nothing but a ripple in the water on the far side. But what had disturbed it? He grimaced as he saw a door. Or something like it. It was kind of small, maybe only three feet high. And why was it here? Anything put here by the city probably wouldn't be behind wood, but metal. "There," Brock said, keeping his light fixed on it.  
  
Jacobs took in a shuddering breath. "They said it lived here. In the sewers. Under the city."  
  
"Well, I don't see anywhere else the Soldier could have gone." Brock shrugged and moved forward. Maybe if he had known as much as Jacobs had about what was supposed to be behind that door, he would have been just as hesitant. But the simple fact was that he didn't know. Even with Jacobs warnings', it just didn't seem real enough.  
  
And then he pushed open the door and it got plenty fucking real.  
  
There was the Soldier, standing, staring up at a spider that had to be as tall as a fucking house. It crouched over the asset, mouth agape, some kind of orange light spilling out of it as it screeched. Brock wanted to collapse back onto the ground and scream and cry and beg to whoever would listen to get him back home, safe in bed where he could sleep this all off and pretend it had been a nightmare because suddenly it was all true. Everything Jacobs had said was real in this instant.  
  
The spider moved fast and Brock fell back without thinking. It dove down on the Soldier, mouth clamping down on the asset's left shoulder. It never twitched, never even tried to fight back.  
  
Then the spider squealed suddenly, shrinking back just as quickly as it had struck, its jaw snapping shut like it'd just been smacked in the face. Jacobs screamed and Brock froze at the sound, like if he moved the spider would come after him. The Soldier fell in a heap, bleeding but unmoving and staring straight ahead with glassy eyes. Only its lips worked, slowly, silently, and it was the only indication they had that it wasn't dead.  
  
Gunfire drove Brock out of his inaction and he raised his own weapon, hoping it wasn't waterlogged or something worse. Not that it seemed to matter. None of the shots Jacobs got off seemed to hurt the spider, whether they hit or not. It scuttled quickly towards him and he screamed, begged, like Brock wanted to but hadn't managed it.  
  
"Fuck!" Brock hissed when he saw it drive a hooked stinger into Jacobs' gut. He had to get out of here. Briefly, he glanced at the Soldier, who was still only laying there like a discarded toy, bleeding sluggishly from the wound where its neck met its shoulder, and whispering wordlessly. Brock grimaced and grabbed it by the right arm, hooking it across his shoulders and he dragged for all they were worth.  
  
It wasn't exactly a virtuous action. He thought about what Jacobs' said before. How if they came back without the Soldier, they'd be sent right back here, and he knew it was true. Even if it was for a dead body, the Soldier's was a corpse they couldn't leave for anyone else to find.  
  
And maybe, if worse came to absolute worse, the spider would recognize easy prey when he saw it. It wasn't Brock's proudest thought. But the Soldier seemed half-dead as it was, and Brock wasn't. He'd do what he had to to keep it that way.  
  
Brock tried to block out the horrific sounds of Jacobs screams as he was eaten alive by the spider. The way he cursed now and then at Brock for abandoning him. But it had been too late. Maybe before they even made it through that door, it'd been too late.  
  
He wasn't sure how long it took to drag and push the Soldier's dead weight through the sewers. It probably felt even longer than it was, given how certain he was that the spider was chasing them. Its' screams reached his ears every now and then, echoing through the pipes, seeming to be everywhere at once. He considered leaving the Soldier more than once, thought about bolting like a frightened horse. But again and again the thought of having to come back here, ever, had him finding the strength he needed to keep going, no matter how heavy that arm and metal-plated ribcage was.  
  
When he finally found a way out, it lead him into the shallow bed of a stream or river. Maybe it was the sight of the lightening night sky but he allowed himself to fall into the water on his back, to gasp for breath that wasn't tainted with shit or rot or the smell of death. He had no idea if the spider was still coming, or if its other various forms would show up here. In fact, he thought if he hung around for too long, it would. He gave himself just enough time to catch his breath, to try to calm his nerves and think rationally again, to push away the sounds of screaming and the wet, awful noises of a man being eaten alive. He let himself focus on the quiet noises of the dying night around them. The near silence in the air. That was when he heard what the Soldier had been whispering this whole time, the words that the spider couldn't handle hearing, for whatever reason: "With you until the end of the line."  
  
17  
  
Brock took a breath and shrugged, snubbing out the last cigarette of the interview. He looked up at the other guy. "That's about all I can tell you. Think you know the rest."  
  
"Yes. We received an urgent request for evac from you at around 4:00 am May 27. You reported the Soldier was injured, with two party members dead."  
  
He nodded, because nothing had changed about that. He'd made it back to the car and radioed for help. He was told to head south, even after he'd argued that something was out there trying to kill them. It was all he could do, so he did it. A helicopter touched down in a clearing and that was that. The Soldier had been catatonic-or nearly so-almost the whole time. It'd stopped whispering its weird little mantra soon after they got out of the woods, away from the river. Away from the sewer. "The Soldier...do they know if it's going to make it, or not?" Brock ventured to ask.  
  
The interviewer smiled tightly. "We suppose he will. The bite will heal like any normal wound." Normal. Brock snorted, couldn't help himself. When the medic on the helicopter inspected the Soldier's injury, he'd cursed out loud, claiming whatever bit him had left marks in the metal there. Something no material known to man was supposed to be able to do, save vibranium.  
  
"What about...I don't know, whatever happened to him? He was definitely unresponsive. Vacant." Nearly dead, was what Brock wanted to say. Even if physically he had only been bitten, he'd had that glassy-eyed look before that had even happened.  
  
"Whatever happened to him with the spider, it disrupted the rhythms of his brain waves, leaving him as you called it, catatonic." Another brief smile. "We have ways of resolving this." Ways. Meaning they'd put him in that chair, zap him with electricity, and hope it works. The Soldier would forget this whole thing ever happened, leaving Brock to wonder, had it? Who could he go to for verification? Who could he compare accounts with?  
  
He licked his lips then. He had to be done with what had happened. This was not like normal field work, where someone on the team may die and the rest will talk it out over beers, reminisce, bitch about what they could've done to stop it. He would be alone in this experience, and somehow that was the most horrifing part of it.  
  
"Will there be anything else, Agent Rumlow? For the record?"  
  
Rumlow wondered briefly how long this record would even be around and who would get the privilige of listening to it before he decided fuck it. He'd seen some horrific shit that day, and he figured he'd earned the right to ask. "The thing. Under the town. What is it?"  
  
"There are things that even Hydra can't know." The man closed his folder full of notes. Richards and Jacobs, that's all their lives and deaths were now, just notes in a file. "One day we hope to change that. But until then, I can't give you an answer I don't have."  
  
Brock nodded. What Jacobs told him must've been all there was to know. Or Hydra would simply keep a lid on it until they engineered a super soldier powerful enough to withstand whatever the hell lived under Derry, Maine.  
  
"Thank you for your time," the man said, reaching out and clicking off the tape recorder.  
  
They shook hands as Brock stood. "Yeah. No problem." He headed for the door that had been opened from the outside. As if to remind him that others were now aware of his testimony, and had been the whole time. On his way out of the lower levels, he passed by one of the medical rooms and he glanced inside. The Soldier was there, a bandage on its shoulder, and someone was putting it through its paces at some cognitive test or another. So it was awake and aware again, as Bryan or Ryan had said. Its blue eyes were clear and attentive. Not afraid or clouded with the stress of the memory of what had happened. And in that brief, sharp moment, Brock envied it.  
  
  
  
  


 


End file.
